


And still I will live here

by CureIcy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Asexual Character, Flirting, Fluff, Hair Washing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post episode 180, Safe For Work, Sharing a Bed, Singing, Teasing, and that's beautiful, asexual author, gratuitous mitski, light references to martin's religious trauma, martin blackwood is soft and a bitch and i love him, when you're gay you make love your new religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CureIcy/pseuds/CureIcy
Summary: Jon and Martin wake up together, and have a bath. There's something incredibly intimate about it, even with sexuality removed from the equation. They are happy, and they are enough.(edit 10/3: made a few minor fixes of spelling errors, added end notes)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 143
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist





	And still I will live here

When Martin wakes up, he wonders if maybe he’s dead, or stuck in the Lonely. Then he realizes that he is in the house of a dramatic— that dramatic man playing piano? —and Annabelle Cane. He’s also currently the little spoon, and the warmth of Jon against his back is enough to reassure him that, for now, they are safe.

“Are you awake?” Jon whispers, then Martin hears a sharp intake of breath, feels Jon’s wiry form lock up against him. He’s trained himself not to ask questions, Martin knows, and this little slip when his inhibitions are down must feel like a failure.

But there’s no static, no compulsion to his words, and Martin pauses for just long enough to make it clear that Jon isn’t making him do this before he gives a cheeky reply of, “Nope, don’t think I am.”

“Mah _tin!”_ Jon complains, and Martin rolls over in the enormous bed they’ve been provided, situating himself so they can talk face to face, clasping their hands together in the middle.

“Yes, Jon?” he asks, grinning smugly.

Jon splutters incoherently for a few moments before he starts to giggle, and Martin joins in, and for a minute they’re just happy and in love. There’s no tombstone laughing ominously behind them, nothing to interrupt their moment of levity, and they can just be together.

“No Beholding here, huh?”

“Nothing!” Jon’s eyes light up, crinkling at the corners, and there is only the pure joy of the relief of being fully human and safe. “Beholding is cancelled, I’m now an avatar of being held.”

“Well, guess I’d better get on that. Gotta feed your entity, after all. C’mere.” Martin makes an impatient gesture, and Jon curls into his arms, his breathing soft and soothing, hair falling across his neck. This only lasts for a second, and then Martin’s stomach rumbles and he realizes he’s actually hungry for real, tangible food.

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. “That’s what hunger feels like, isn’t it?”

“Did you honestly forget?” Martin pokes Jon’s side, eliciting a surprised squeak that’s the most adorable thing he’s heard in years. He doesn’t think his heart will ever recover from that.

“Listen, I— I didn’t think— yes, sometimes I forget food exists.” Jon huffs, grabbing Martin’s hands and holding them tight to his chest to prevent him from tickling Jon again. “Want to head downstairs and see what our hosts have provided?”

“Sounds good to me.” But he can't resist staying in bed just a few minutes long, basking in the warmth and safety the two of them share.

* * *

Annabelle Cane is waiting in the kitchen, looking rather bored and dressed like she’s on her way to a fifties themed pride parade and then a tea party afterwards.

“Morning,” she acknowledges them with a nod. “Mikaele asked me to make sure you were properly taken care of. Help yourself to anything in the pantry or the fridge, and when you’re done with that, the bathroom is upstairs; second door on the right. When you’re done washing up, there should be some clothing in the closet. Find something that fits, I don’t care. Maybe give some advance notice before you meet him, too. Mikaele probably wants to get to the second movement when you walk in.”

“Seriously?” Martin says incredulously.

“Do you have any idea how long he’s been practicing classical piano just to be dramatic?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. “Too long. Too damn long. Just humor him.”

She leaves, and then breakfast passes in— well, in a ravenous blur. Both of them are too hungry to be concerned with anything like manners, and by the end of it, Jon is staring blankly at his plate and Martin feels like he’s missed something. Like he should have savored that more. Like he should have held onto that little moment of humanity.

Maybe he should make tea. But then a moment passes, and in his next inhale he realizes that his first priority should probably be a bath. His skin is coated in filth, and now he can see the trails of it left on the carpet and table and walls, imprints of them, transplants from an apocalypse to an oasis.

Jon apparently follows his gaze, because he slowly stands up and offers a half smile and a hand to Martin. “To the bath, then?”

“Yeah.” Martin takes his hand, rubbing it absently with his thumb, as they both walk up the stairs. “I don’t— I don’t want to be away from you. Not here.”

“And that’s okay.” Jon offers a reassuring smile, a gentle brush of his shoulders to remind Martin that he is here, he isn’t leaving, and they stand at the entrance now soaking up each other’s presence. 

“Oh, what a darn shame. Looks like there’s only one bathroom!” Martin says, in the same jovial tone that he declared that Scottish safehouse to have only one bed as he was shutting the door to the rather inconvenient spare bedroom.

“Whatever shall we do,” Jon agrees, taking his hand and walking in, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

"There's literally a second bathroom just down--" Annabelle begins from somewhere outside, but Martin cuts her off.

"Sorry, can't hear you, there's a door in the way!" He turns back to Jon, and there's a moment of silence before they laugh, long and loud with nothing to interrupt. It's been such a long time since they were this happy.

"I love you so much," Jon says, and there's a simplicity to the statement that makes it all the more profound. "You really are incredible, you know that?"

"So...you want to go first?"

"Together?" Jon tilts his head to the side, just slightly. Uncertain, but that uncertainty is all the more delightful in its mundanity.

Martin crosses the gap and takes the hand of the one he loves. "Together."

They've discussed boundaries, intimacy, asexuality, anxiety, trauma, healing, and now, at the end of all that discussion, all that's left is a few words. So they fill the tub with pleasantly warm and steaming water, bath bombs and epsom salt, laughing as they toss in whatever they can find in the cabinets, and then shed their clothes in a pile and slip in, together.

The water is perfect, so perfect that Martin gasps in delight and Jon rushes in, wincing slightly as he adjusts, then grinning. "Yes, yes, look before you leap, I know," he says, but there's no bite to his words. Martin slides in with considerably more grace, legs tangling with Jon's before settling into something like a neat pattern, Jon-Martin-Jon-Martin. 

"You look absolutely adorable this way, and I want you to be aware of that," Martin says, leaning forward slightly with a teasing smile.

"What, naked?" Jon asks, perplexed.

"No, when-- when you smile. You've got these cute little mismatched dimples." Martin reaches out and pokes them, one side per finger, and Jon blushes, pushing his hands away with no real force behind it.

“Martin, stop, you’ll get water in my mouth!”

“Come on, they’re so cute!”

“Here you are, calling me cute, when you’ve got freckles everywhere? Look at all of these!” Jon pokes Martin’s chest gently, over and over. “Right there, and there, and there and there, and here, and over here too! And there— ”

“Jon, we’re going to be here all day!”

“Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you and your freckles decided to be so damn perfect!”

“Jon, I’ve been hiking through literal filth, they’re probably covered up, or at least most of them.”

“Then I’ll find them for you.” Jon grabs the soap in one hand, and the washcloth in the other, and smiles shyly, in a way that reminds Martin that his lover is a year younger than him. “Is— is that okay?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

The bathwater is warm, but Martin shivers at Jon’s touch as he rubs calming circles across his skin, peeling away the layers of grime and blood and dust and ash and sweat and whatever was in that couch. Martin wants to sit on a real couch with Jon here, or maybe even an armchair. Sharing an armchair sounds nice.

“Turn around, I’ll get the other side,” Jon murmurs, and Martin obligingly turns, sloshing in the bathwater that is beginning to grow clouded. He begins to sway slowly, half closing his eyes and relaxing under the steady motions of Jon’s hands. The water rocks back and forth, like miniature tides, and for a moment he imagines the two of them in this tub as an entire world, drifting through space in synchronicity.

Ooh, that’s a good one for sure. It’s definitely going in his poetry notebook.

Jon starts to hum, massaging Martin’s scalp as he lathers in shampoo and works through the tangles with careful fingers. It takes a moment, but Martin recognizes the song as Strawberry Blonde. He thinks Jon might have hummed it before at work, and he hears the sweetness and longing and ache and resolution echoing around this little space.

 _“All I need, darling is a life in your shape, I picture it soft and I ache,”_ Jon sings, fingers moving in soothing circles to the rhythm of his voice. _“Look at you, strawberry blonde~”_

Jon’s voice resonates around them circling and finally finding its way home. And now Martin joins in, a clear tenor to Jon’s rich baritone. _“Can you feel the bumblebees swarm? Watching your arm, I love it when you look my way~”_

And as they finish the chorus, he wonders about Isaiah, who was a boy or maybe the feeling of one, who loved and was loved and the tragedy of unrequited feelings, and wonders if he’s scared now. He wonders if Jon could have become his lost Lenore, a tragic ache of loves and days gone by, had they not chosen to defy fate and be together.

“Close your eyes,” Jon whispers, and tilts Martin’s head back to rinse his hair.

The water pours over him, like a baptism, except it’s so much more powerful and meaningful than the time Martin was coerced in, shivering, and came out of the water crying as the congregation applauded.

Religion has hurt Martin, but love has healed him. He thinks maybe love is his new religion, his salvation, his hope, and the light in Jon’s eyes feels more real than any light from above the uncomfortable pews of his childhood church.

“Thank you,” Martin says softly. He’s not sure why, but the emotion is overflowing inside of him, and he feels like his heart might burst.

“Always.” Jon wraps his arms around Martin, leaning on him. His chin rests on Martin’s shoulder, and he hums contentedly, his breath tickling Martin’s skin.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Martin says softly, a bit more breathily than he intended.

“Yeah.” All too soon, he peels himself away from Martin’s back, pulling himself up to sit on the rim. “We should probably drain the water.”

Martin joins him with a sigh, still dripping wet, and holds Jon close for warmth. They sit for a while, swinging their legs and holding each other, and watch the water drain away.

“You know that you’re enough for me, don’t you?” Martin says suddenly.

“Hm?”

“I mean it. I don’t miss sex. When I had it before, I did it more for the conversations leading up to it, the feeling of having someone with me. But I don’t need that anymore. Now I have someone who needs me back.” He reaches out to take Jon’s hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. “You’re more than enough. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon might be crying; it’s hard to tell. But he doesn’t say anything more.

And then the last of the water swirls down with a gurgle, and they stand. By some unspoken agreement, trailing water and soap and muck on the tile floor, Jon and Martin refill the tub with warm water and the same reckless mix of whatever indulgences they can find in the cabinet. They deserve to have a piece of happiness.

And now they slip back in and Jon turns around, and Martin begins, peeling Jon’s hair tie away from his scalp where it’s been practically crusted on with grime. Still, he is gentle, careful not to tug too hard, and swishes the hair tie around in the soapy water before plunging his hands back into the mess of Jon’s gloriously long hair, now tangled and messy.

He begins at the ends, coaxing it into neat rows with a brush, moving layer by layer, stroke by stroke, caring for something delicate and precious. Slowly, the snarl becomes something more manageable, the streaks of silver settling into their places rather than running wild.

Finally, when he reaches Jon’s scalp, he grabs the shampoo from above them on the shelf and begins to warm it in his hands. Jon is rather sensitive to the cold, and in Scotland, always wore socks in bed and stole Martin’s hoodies. Not to mention after being kidnapped by Nikola, he has difficulties with this sort of thing. Being touched by cold hands is enough to send him into the beginning stages of a panic attack, and Martin has learned to make sure that Jon always knows the hands touching him are warm and soft and human, nothing like the cold and rigid touch of a mannequin.

Jon is practically a liquid, melting into Martin’s touch as he massages shampoo into his scalp. It’s quality shampoo, nothing like the basic outdoorsy 4-in-1 stuff Daisy kept in the cabin, and Martin feels a little thrill of excitement at how soft Jon’s hair will be when it dries. He thinks it would look pretty braided, maybe a fishtail this time, and he always loves seeing Jon’s bemusement and wonder when Martin styles his hair a new way.

Jon breathes in, then out, deep and contented. This is enough. He’s satisfied. And there’s nowhere Martin would rather be, and his heart is overflowing, so he starts to sing, a serenade and a promise.

 _“I will take good care of you, I will take good care of you...”_ Martin begins, slower than the original tempo, his voice resonating through the small bathroom. _“Everything you feel is good, if you would only let you~”_

Carefully, he tilts Jon’s head back, pouring a cup full of water, continuing until everything has been rinsed away. Jon presses deep into his touch, moving ever so slightly with the music.

 _“I will wash your hair at night, and dry it off with care,”_ Martin continues softly, and then he finishes the last line of the stanza with such emotion that he knows Jon will feel it. _“I will see your body bare, and still, I will live here.”_

Martin hums the instrumental, and Jon joins in, a beat hesitant but catching up, and Martin feels the water ripple and sway with the force of their music and love. It’s slow, sweet, something that is theirs and theirs alone. Finally it comes to a close, a single note resonating through both of them, and fades to nothing but a tender memory.

Whatever comes next, Martin thinks he’s ready to face it.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what y'all think! Shameless fluff is my new comfort genre


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